


Flower Trains

by moon_hedgehog



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic)
Genre: Amélie AU, Coffee Shops, Kisses, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Strangers to Lovers, it's Paris we don't do slow burns here, so we have, yes this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-05 08:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14614587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: One's trying to write his self-portrait, the other - bring together a cousin and a neighbor. Both believe that kisses are dances; at night paintings come alive; and every little trifle is connected with much more significant things.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> don't look at me like that, it's my favorite movie  
> and  
> a birthday present for myself.

On September 28th 1997, at 6:19am and 28 seconds, Mr. Alphonse Bird, having woken up, realizes that his yesterday's lung angina has worsened. Turning to the right side, he touches his wife Katherine and asks her to make tea with honey. An understanding woman, between pouring hot water into the greyish of old age mug, calls British Airways and reports that today one of their pilots won't be able to take charge.

At the same moment, thousands of kilometers away, the strongest gust of wind tears off colorful flags, adorning sunny streets of Barcelona. One of the fabric's pieces lands on the back of running across the alley black cat, making it jump from surprise and hiss.

All this, one way or another, leads to the fact that a low green-eyed blond twenty-five years old named Edward Hyde finds himself at the Charles de Gaulle Airport an hour later than appears on his ticket. Son of Galway, he combines in himself seemingly incompatible traits of character. A dreamer from birth, this Irishman suffers from periodic aggression attacks; likes the smell of mint, but hates the taste of caramel; prefers the company of old people to the company of old books; and always says what he thinks, despite the shyness. Now he has to stand at the exit from the airport, looking for his cousin on mother – Archer. It is he who's the owner of a tiny café in the center of Montmartre, to where – due to the eternal lack of waiters - was called his beloved cousin. It's not that Edward Hyde is interested in working in a café, in an unfamiliar city of an unfamiliar country. Like all people of his young age, he's making certain plans for the future, covered with an obscure light of the color of wet asphalt. The question rests only on finances – and “work for hire” can help him to get at least some soil under his feet.

At the moment when one of the pigeons takes off over the central Venice's square, throwing its blue-gray feather on the pavement, and an alarm clock of the sleepy pizzeria worker reminds of its existence for the third time; at that very moment the doors of Charles de Gaulle let in a young man with a barely visible scar on his right cheek and a broad smile on his whole face. This man is Mr. Archer – he loves his home country and his family; loves pies with raspberry jam; and absolutely hates political parties in all their sinister manifestation. He flies to his cousin and locks him in a strong embrace, ignoring a loud hiss of the latter. Having parted, the relatives look at each other for long – Edward with dislike, Archer with fondness – and, finally, begin an empty and practically meaningless conversation, during which the brunet with a scar leads Mr. Hyde out of the building and into the taxi, flopping down next to him, giving the driver an address of a completely unfamiliar to Edward street.

“I thought you had a car,” he harrumphs, lovingly adjusting his single bag with things, fit on one of the seats.

“It's been confiscated,” Archer waves off, and then blithely continues to talk about France, Paris, his hard business, and all those stupid things close people tell each other after a long separation.

It's September 28th 1997. Edward Hyde looks out the window at the streets passing by, surrendering to his own thoughts and dreams. In 48 hours, his life will change forever. But he doesn't know it yet.

 

On September 28th 1997, in another part of the city, on Place du Tertre, a tall red-eyed brunet of twenty-eight years named Henry Jekyll sketches the domes of Sacré-Cœur Basilica. Having moved to Paris a couple of years ago, he hoped to get here an inspiration for future works, but, unfortunately, has never found it. Born in London, on a frosty December evening, this Englishman earns a living by drawing portraits of interested passers; suffers from the oppression of clinical depression; likes the smell of sandalwood, but doesn't tolerate even the slightest spirit of lemons; prefers the company of old books to the company of people of all ages; and keeps silent most of the time, periodically leniently smiling to the life around him. Materially and morally, he depends on his old friend Victor Frankenstein, who has kindly sheltered this artist-failure at his home, letting him enjoy the affectionate sun of Montmartre and an excellent coffee in the coffee shop nearby.

Henry has long ceased to foresee his future ahead, giving up to the flow of the current. Not that it has suited him. But he has his own small favorite things: the first rays of the sun, gently peering into his room; the letters of grandparents during the Second World War, which Henry saved and took with him; still warm pastry being sold at the bakery around the corner at dawn. Jekyll doesn't have only one: a kindred soul with which he could share these little things that make up his life – he occasionally thinks, sitting by the fireplace and stroking behind the ear of Scottish Terrier Zosi, comfortably fitting on his lap.

It's September 28th 1997. Henry Jekyll sketches the domes of Sacré-Cœur Basilica. In 48 hours, his life will change forever. But he doesn't know it yet.


	2. II

This is Virginia Ito. She smells like forget-me-nots; likes walks under the moon; and cannot tolerate pies. Now she's sweeping open the door of Mr. Hyde's apartment, dragging him inside. Edward examines the room with a skepticism of a person ready for everything, but, surprisingly, finds it quite pleasant. His young conciergerie, who took care of the house by inheritance, enthusiastically tells and shows what here and how, without ceasing to smile with the edges of her lips. Edward doesn't know how to treat her yet. She seems responsible and cold, but the passion with which she talks about the world around makes Hyde postpone the conclusions.

“And I'm your neighbor, let me tell you.” Virginia straightens her skirt and turns to Edward, offering him a cup of freshly-brewed mint tea. “Archer said you're a good guy.”

“You know Archer?” the blond takes a cup, pleasantly burning his fingers, and looks at Ito with surprise.

She laughs crystally and melodiously, like a nightingale - he remembers she's only twenty-three years old.

“Of course I know Archer. He, too, once lived in my house,” Virginia smiles with her impossible, charming blue eyes, in the depths of which Edward, for a split second, has time to notice sliding sadness.

He doesn't yet know what's here and why, but swears to himself to understand it.

 

Victor Frankenstein is a man wise with years of experience. He has a healthy self-irony; likes to read morning papers; and wrinkles his nose at the mention of Christ's name. With fatherly care, he protects his friend-artist, whom once met under the misty skies of rainy London, on Shaftesbury Avenue. Now, with a tender yearning, he sees off the latter with his eyes, watching how Henry Jekyll wraps in a scarf and grabs brushes and easel under his arm.

“Are you going to write your self-portrait again?” this ask is like a matter of habit. He knows the answer in advance, so isn't surprised with hearing a 'yes'.

“You know, until I finish it,” Henry shoes on the run, “I can't get to the next picture. It seems like something is keeping me… Only I can't understand what.”

Frankenstein sighs and scratches the grayish top of his head. His cat - Creature - jumps on his lap with a purring, and curls there like a ball. If he would know how to help an ill-fated friend – would've offered this help long ago. But Jekyll has been obsessed with this painting, announcing that it would become his masterpiece. That's just, putting on it last smears, he growls and bedaubs the canvas with black. It's all wrong – he says. It shouldn't look like this – he persists.

Victor sighs again, noticing that Henry, as always, forgets to close the door behind him.

 

“A newbie?”

Rachel claps her hands and dances on a spot. This girl loves milk with coffee and hates coffee with milk; tells barefoot neighbors' children fairy tales; and has been working at Mr. Archer's Café since the moment of its opening. As the only waitress, Pidgley is required to teach her employer's cousin everything she knows herself. And, believe me, she's happy with this!

Unfortunately, madame Cantilupe doesn't share this joy. All that she loves and truly appreciates are her old gray reading glasses, making her look like one of the chimeras of Notre-Dame Cathedral. Periodically replacing Archer behind the counter, madame considers herself a full-fledged worker of this house, and won't fail to drop a lot of advices to both the waitress and visitors. The larger half of these advices relates to personal life, and, of course, is based on her personal experience.

“Another Irishman.” Cantilupe puts off her cigarette on an empty tray with cookies and snorts. Born Frenchwoman, she's going through the domination of immigrants in her country very hard.

“Come on, madame.” Rachel wipes tables, illuminating the café with a radiant smile. “I'm sure he'll be nice. Just like mister Archer.”

“God forbid he'll be just like mister Archer,” madame Cantilupe hands up theatrically. It seems that she wants to say something else, but a quiet knock on the door interrupts her.

“We're closed!” she cries, but the waitress girl hurries to open. In front of her – embarrassed and desperately blushing monsieur Jasper, a supplier. Rachel immediately regrets that at this very moment she's in this very place.

“O-oh… Hello, monsieur,” the girl mumbles, feeling her cheeks covering with red paint as well.

Jasper stumbles at the entrance and then turns with a strangled squeak and in a second appears to be by his own cart. The most real, rural cart, full of fruits packed to the top.

“There's pears, apples, plums...” he babbles, stuttering. “Everything as mister Archer asked.”

“Everything as mister Archer asked, you say?”  
  
The brunet's contented voice rings in the clear autumn air. Mister Archer smiles broadly, approaching his offspring, and next to him Rachel with a delighted snort admires a low, ruffled blond man in a green scarf. She instantly forgets about monsieur Jasper and her own reddened face – hides her hands behind her back and quietly clasps again.

 

When playing children running past throw a coin on the pavement, it's raised by Robert Lanyon – and this, rather, speaks not of his greed but of perfectionism. This young doctor prefers forget-me-nots to all other flowers; plays the piano with a dexterity of demon; and can't live a single day without a wondrous smell of coffee. Every morning, as like now, he counts every step on the descent to place Marcel-Aymé, sorting out in his mind one and a thousand options to dissuade his best friend from a senseless undertaking. Nevertheless, when the look of his eyes meets Henry Jekyll, wrapped in a scarf, laying out an old easel, he only harrumphs in defeat.

“Robert, look, what if this time make colors thicker?” the young artist turns to him one of the former sketches and bites the end of his brush. Before evaluating the picture itself, Lanyon notes that it would be nice to buy Henry new, uneaten paraphernalia.

On the canvas, in all its brown-red splendor, flaunts a railway station. Dashing, knocking with wheels trains, a tiny shop with fresh newspapers. People scurry back and forth like black silhouettes, in an eternal hurry, without noticing a central figure of the painting – their very creator. Standing at the platform like a tiny dot, lonely bowing his head towards the gusts of fate's wind.

“I don't think it will help, Henry,” Robert answers after a pause. “And I still cannot understand why you don't work at Pigalle.”

His friend shakes head vigorously, indignantly putting jars of oil paint on the stand, and Robert recalls that rainy Paris's evening of their meeting – and all subsequent, strong friendship. Distinguished by unprecedented stubbornness, sometimes both dear friends only and dreamed of scratching out each other's eyes, but somehow were always coming to compromises. A compromise in this particular case hasn't been seen by anyone yet and getting tired of calling precious Jekyll to settle down, Robert only silently watched his countless attempts.

“You know it's too noisy for me.”

“Have you drunk that packet of coffee I gave you?” asking a question, Lanyon tightly wraps in his own cloak, wincing at the morning chill.

Henry frowns, doing the first, new smear.

“I don't think it will help, Robert.”

Under the skillful fingers of this artist, the next station shows itself, and his friend shakes his head and sighs:

“If coffee won't help you, mon chéri, nothing will.”


	3. III

It's 45 hours since one of British airplanes' landing on a glorious French earth. The first autumn leaves are waltzing in the air, a young immigrant from India buys his first in life flower bouquet at the corner, and the shop under the violet signboard is selling a stylized vintage calendar with funny drawings of kittens. The owner of this shop - a collector of occult things, a friend of every street animal, and an admirer of cheese soup, mister Maijabi - hands this precious, but inexpensive thing to a certain Edward Hyde, continuing to twitch his beard thoughtfully even after his leaving. The young Irishman himself hops through the streets and turns on the way to his house, dancing on heels. When he's inside, the conciergerie is watering two high, crooked palm trees in the stairwell. She nods affably, not distracting from her occupation, so he flies up the stairs and loudly slams his door.

During that short period of time spent in it, Edward's apartment has managed to become his home. Now he adds only the final touches, pinning calendar to the wall with a red push-pin and circling on September 30 with a green ballpoint pen. His window suddenly opens wide, grating the shutters, and he flinches, looking back. Outside is heard a loud girlish laugh, which, undoubtedly, doesn't belong to madame Virginia, but immediately reminds Edward of her. That undeniable sadness, an invisible bitter mystery hiding in her eyes takes thoughts of a seemingly eternally careless Irishman too much. Furthermore, with a certain sixth sense, mister Hyde believes that somehow this all is connected with his precious cousin. So exactly at the moment when his wall clock makes a strange quacking sound, announcing that the morning has smoothly spilled into the day; he takes the most final decision to help both. Then looks up, and with horror realizes that his change on a new job should begin exactly in half an hour.

 

Thereby, since the deterioration of Mr. Alphonse Bird's angina passes exactly 48 hours. While a trusted doctor is listening to Alphonse's lung sounds, Edward Hyde rushes through the streets of Montmartre like a late for a morning prayer Christian. His legs deftly jump over the emerging obstacles in form of finely yapping dogs and crumbled cobblestones; they serve properly, and it's nothing to complain about here. Unfortunately, the eyes of Edward inspect an opening territory too quick and therefore linger on a pretty shopwindow with fresh pastries a little longer than they are supposed to – certainly this causes the next catastrophe. He wildly crashes into someone.

'Someone' turns out to be young _-_ not much older than Edward _-_ brunet, fallen on the asphalt, absently flapping his eyes. Paintbrushes and tubes in his hands have scattered all over the street, and Hyde, who's managed to stay on his feet, watches all this disaster in a mute despair.

“Sorry,” he mutters almost nervously, giving a hand to a stranger and lifting him off the ground with one tug.

'Stranger' still seems a little shocked, but nods and also looks around. As soon as their glances meet for a fleeting fraction of a second, Edward turns away and bends down, collecting the results of his inattention. The brunet immediately rushes to his aid.

“It isn't necessary, I can do it myself.”

“Yourself you're only going to manage with this by sunset,” Hyde snorts at him, for which deserves an unexpected, close look. Some more time, his new friend noticeably hesitates, but then asks nonetheless:  
  
“You have a familiar accent. Where are you from?”

“Ireland. And you?” Edward practically adds 'let me guess', but suddenly feels a wave of approaching shyness, and suspiciously frowns at it.

“England. My name is Henry.”

The brunet takes another multicolored tube in his hand, the ray of light bounces off the heeling roofs and disappears in his eyes with glares, and Edward Hyde suddenly thinks that it's such a silly name - Henry - and there isn't a single thing unusual about it, except, perhaps, it's astonishing beauty. With such thoughts, he involuntarily admits that wants to learn more about Henry than that he was an unintentional victim of his haste – but decides to remain silent.

“Edward. Edward Hyde.”

Brushes and paints are collected exactly after 20 minutes since the insidious collision of two completely different people, and on 21 young Irishman already pushes all his part of help into the young Englishman's hands, cries something like 'I need to work, buy' and completely doesn't notice the glance with which he's being escorted to the nearest corner.

 

Wristwatch on Henry Jekyll's hand shows that from the moment this stranger finally disappeared from sight, has passed at least three minutes. So when the artist finally decides to shift his glance on it, he unwittingly understands two things – firstly, it should be wiped off of the red paint that's stained the glass. Secondly – Robert will kill him for sure. Because Henry is already late for a good half an hour, and the longer his precious friend waits, the more he resembles a devil-born Frenchman, which, however, he is. Without losing a single precious second, Jekyll turns around and sets off down the street. The house of Victor Frankenstein soon appears right in front of his nose, and Henry pushes the front door with his shoulder; as always, it isn't latched. From the top floor is heard a bark of his Scottish Terrier, Creature runs to his feet, but Henry just habitually dodges, flies into the living room and drops art supplies on the coffee table by the wall.

“I don't want it here by evening,” Frankenstein mumbles to him.

He plays the piano, old fingers slide over black and white keys, and the room is filled with a light melody. Henry recalls that once he has already heard it – it was a waltz written by his friend in the years of his youth. He comes closer, glances at the portrait of Victor's grandfather (unfortunately, now he's speechless), and runs his eyes through the sheet music. Perfect balderdash.

“Why did you come?” Victor creaks again, without turning his head.

Henry blinks.

“To take this here,” and indistinctly points his finger to the paints with brushes that their black cat hasn't already neglected to tackle with.

“No.” The last chord pierces the air and Frankenstein, finally, looks on his young friend. “Not only for that. Did something happen?”

Henry licks his teeth and swings from heels to toes before replying:

“It's nothing.”

“Your eyes don't say me it's nothing,” Victor smiles leniently, and Jekyll throws his hands up theatrically, picking up this smile himself.

“I just met someone from Britain, that's all!”

With these words Henry jumps out of the building, remembering again about the awaiting meeting. His old friend nods importantly then takes a glass of favorite orange juice in his hand and looks at the sun playing with verges.

“Oh, Henry, who was that man now you can't take your thoughts off?”

 

“Oh, Henry, do you even listen to me?”

While the midday sun is getting hotter and hotter, two young men are hiding in the blessed shadow of a tiny Parisian cafétéria. Hearing indignant notes in Robert's voice, Henry flinches and shifts his gaze away from the bird on the table nearby.

“Mmm… Yes, of course, Hai- Robert,” Jekyll corrects himself, but still catches the glance of a nightmarish condemnation. The glance of a nightmarish condemnation - a cognate shtick of a young Frenchman, which he's inherited from his great-grandmother - usually always means that now this unlucky artist will be chastised. Perhaps it would have happened and now, but Lanyon just leans back on the chair, a tired groan slips out of his lips.

“What's going on with you today?”

Henry himself cannot answer this question.

“Just tired,” he shrugs.

Robert is not that friend who would've been satisfied with this answer.

“You're not doing anything, mon chéri, of what can you be tired?”

Of course, his French friend is deeply convinced that you can really get tired only of labors in some field, and Jekyll hasn't been in hurry to dissuade him from this year after year.

“Yes, maybe you're right.” Henry weakly moves his shoulder, a fog covers his gaze at that time. “I'm not doing anything, I don't know what to do next. I meet people who… doesn't matter… I'm not trying to get out of this city nor from the river in which it's lured me. And I can't do anything.”

Doctor Lanyon hardly believes in all heavenly forces ever combined, but feeling a sudden change in the mood of his friend, silently rolls his eyes and offers an inaudible prayer. Aloud, he only says:

“The coffee here is disgusting, I'd rather rake you to another place, its owner one of my old friends, but listen, at first we even-”


	4. IV

From the very dawn, Rachel wakes up with a feeling that something very uncommon will happen today. She smiles at the floral ceiling, and jumps out of bed, barefoot stepping onto the cold autumn floor. Swinging, sings to herself a wondrous, hardly familiar melody; combs her hair; crunches yesterday's chocolate chip cookies and slips out of her cozy apartment, throwing a colorful shawl on her shoulders. The temperature last days is stable at 24°C, humidity 70%.

Pidgley dances on the way to the place of her work and opens the glass doors of the café with a completely dreamy look. She's met by a very surprising picture.

“Mon chéri, if you only knew how much effort I put in smoking no more than three cigarettes per day,” madame Cantilupe complains, leaning against the counter.

Her inveterate listener – Mr. Edward Hyde – pats the woman on her shoulder soothingly, and Rachel opens her mouth in a silent 'o'. Waiter's white apron looks unbelievably good on him.

“Oh, but my husband hated cigarettes, even disdained to touch them,” continues madame, shaking her head. “I started smoking only after his death. On principle.” She suddenly takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose loudly. Edward writhes a face to Rachel and pats his 'patient' again. “But you're right, mon chéri...” for some time she remains silent, then slowly and solemnly says: “From today I turn to nicotine gums.”

Rachel doesn't restrain herself from this and claps her hands, which makes the woman - who hasn't noticed her hitherto - jump and turn around. When she realizes it's just a waitress, madame corrects her glasses, brushes off a tiny drop of water of her eyelashes, and leaves to the toilet room. Rachel hangs her shawl on a hook and, tightening her apron behind her back, snorts:

“Who are you, a magician?”

“I'm an Irishman.” Hyde curtsies, almost falls his forehead onto the countertop and at the last moment clings to it with fingers. Rachel chuckles.

“No, honestly. Even mister Archer couldn't make her not to smoke at least here,” she looks around. “And he's just getting furious when seeing a cigarette and a lighter next to him.”

Edward shrugs his shoulders and turns to cups and glasses. In his hand appears a towel, and with skillful movements, he wipes freshly washed utensils. Pidgley snorts again and joins him.

“Listen,” drawls 'Irishman', “I actually wanted to talk to you. About Archer. Does he have someone?”

The young girl freezes for a second. If Edward had been one of those people of her close circle for enough time, he would've probably spotted a spark in her eyes. Unfortunately, not knowing about such trifles, all that he has to watch is her sudden smirk.

“Like someone special?” she turns to Hyde and he nods. “No, not really. At least not now.” And, heralding his next question, adds: “But he had a girlfriend once. It seems like he lived in her house. I don't remember her name. They remain good friends.” Rachel pauses, catching a glare of light on one of the glasses and staring at it, enchanted. Then hands of the clock above the front door stop exactly at the opening time, and she instinctively raises her head. “But why are you asking?”

Receives only a hazy green glance in response.

“Nothing special.”

Rachel rolls her eyes but quickly switches to a tickling sense of expectation in her stomach.

“Listen, you're here for the first time, huh? In Paris. So, you need to see _everything_!” she enthusiastically grabs a crystal ashtray, but quickly puts it back, in fear to drop. “You should try so many new things!”

Edward frowns in confusion.

“Try new things… like what?”

For some time this incomprehensible little girl keeps thoughtful silent and then shakes her head carelessly and a stack of dark chocolate hair scatters over her shoulders.

“For example, dancing. Have you ever danced?”

 

A painted bell above the front door rings warbly, and Edward turns to the sound, opening his mouth to greet the newcomers, but instantly becomes whiter than canvas. Trying to do everything as quickly and unnoticeably as possible, the blond backs away, and soon instantly hides behind the column separating showcases with cakes in two. His miserable glance catches Rachel and blinks. Edward throws a meaningful look back, and the girl peeks from behind his shoulder.

“What? This is our regular customer, Robert Lanyon,” she whispers, whisking behind the column as well.

“And with him?” Edward hisses.

Madame Cantilupe's voice loudly asks the visitors about their wishes, as Pidgley makes a peeping maneuver again, and then turns to the man.

“I think his name is Henry… Jekyll. I've never seen him before, but Robert often talked about him.” Rachel frowns as if recalling something. “He said he's an artist. But he doesn't have any luck with his paintings. And he's always depressed.” She blinks innocently. “But why are you asking?”

In Edward's Hyde head there are too many thoughts, they spin and interrupt one another; but the mainest of them all is – to escape. From it, with thin antennas, stretches a thousand and one possible option to perform this inornate action. There are too many of them as well, and Edward's boat of thoughts heels, filling up with water to its top. Perhaps he would've even tried to implement something, but only the next second Cantilupe enters their hide spot, throwing a fleeting glance at the waitress and waiter.

“Get to work, come on!” she shakes her head; however, addressed to Hyde, her voice softens: “Mon chéri, you're new here, so go and serve your first table.”

Edward tries to mumble weak protests, but a moment later in his hands is a plastic tray with two cups of fragrant coffee, and madame gently pushes him out of the column. Rachel accompanies him with a worried look. If escape is no longer possible, thoughts of young Hyde switch to the task more feasible – not to drop this damn tray, and not to fall yourself. The way to the table, which is located in six steps from the counter, suddenly turns out to be no easier than climbing Everest. About Everest, Mr. Hyde heard only thanks to radio, but it hasn't detracted his sensations. A Frenchman sitting opposite Henry – and it is certainly a Frenchman - causes Edward a strange feeling of dislike, and therefore, hasn't accustomed to conceal his feelings, he puts a coffee cup in front of him with a loud knock. It distracts both guys from their conversation – during which the main storyteller is exactly this 'Robert' – and they stare at their waiter, but he catches only right glance. The artist looks like he hasn't slept ten nights in a row, his wine eyes sparkle, and the tips of his lips are directed downwards. He watches Edward with a splashing like a Mediterranean sea recognition, and then looks away sharply, and hides his face in the palms of his hands.

“Hello,” the voice is completely deaf, but Hyde even stammers to answer:  
  
“Ah, yeah, hi.”

He puts a second cup on the table with a knocking no quieter, along the way a drop of coffee slides off it, and Edward frantically rushes to wipe it. His friend is much faster in this, applying a napkin to the wet spot. Edward stretches his hand to take it; for a moment their fingers touch, and both jerk back. Henry opens his mouth to say something, but red paint suddenly pours his cheek – just the tubes of this paint were scattered around the street on September 30 of 1997 – and he hides in his own hands again.

“Uh-em...” drawls Edward, burning the tray with a glare and not knowing where to put it. “How's your painting? Well I… I heard you're working on a painting. And em… It's nice to talk to someone from your own, well not your own country, I mean… just… to talk...”

If the floor under Edward Hyde would split of a very rare for France earthquake, he'll thank heavens for it. Unfortunately, today heavens aren't tuned to meet the needs, so poor Irishman has to digest his own words with a stony expression on his face.

“Ah, yes, everything's fine,” Jekyll laughs nervously but straightens. “The painting is, em… painting. So far, it's not going well enough to finish it. So you, you work here, huh?” he looks around and Hyde repeats his action, noticing madame Cantilupe reading a newspaper and Rachel, shamelessly eyeing in their direction. He turns away.

“Something like that. My cousin owns this, he invited me here.” Edward finally hides the tray behind his back, squeezing it in his hands. “It's my first time in Paris. Dealraíonn sé cosúil le áit gleoite.”

Henry blinks, his smile warmly lights the café.

“Sorry, I don't understand Irish.”

“You don't have to,” Hyde snorts. “All of you English guys are fussing over your precious language.”

Little laughs flash in his eyes, when he almost sarcastically responds:

“Au moins, je peux me vanter de la connaissance d'autres langues.”

Edward looks at him for a while, then rolls his eyes woefully:

“You got me here.”

“Well...” Henry hesitantly bites his lip, his exhale's sharp: “If you're interested, I could, uh, arrange you a tour around Paris and… that's it.”

Any normal person would accept this offer immediately. Meet with someone who has too cute smile, have a great time and learn about a new culture of a new city. It's called grabbing your lucky ticket. The last thing Edward Hyde wants. Actually, no lucky tickets grabbing aren't included in his plans.

“Yes, n-no, you know, I don't think I can, I've just arrived and haven't had time to get used here, and I have a lot of work, and-” Hyde babbles, clutching the ill-fated tray awkwardly. With no less awkwardness, Jekyll interrupts him:

“I-it's nothing, I understand everything, of course, everything is fine, I-”

A loud “ahem!” by Robert Lanyon interrupts both of them.

 

Robert has considered himself a person relatively patient, understanding and compliant. However, when a cup of coffee in his hands is drunk to its bottom, he pays with a second speed and drags his best friend out; not really caring about his cup drunkness degree. The rest of the time spent at this café, Jekyll either depicted a Shakesperian tragedy on his face or cast fleeting glances at the blond waiter. Which later plunged into the pantry's darkness with Rachel Pidgley – and this brisk little girl Robert knows very well. As he remembers, she almost burned his fruitcake once. Lanyon still hasn't had a clue how exactly this happened.

“Don't you want to share your thoughts with me?” he interests threateningly, as soon as the café happens to be from them in relative distance.

Henry's response is no less vapid than the look on his face:

“For example?..”

“For example who's been so active in making you blush?” and this is already asked with a certain amount of worry. Never before has Robert Lanyon seen his best, but stupid friend react to someone like that. Once upon a time in Jekyll's life, there even was a sweet, formidable madame. Madame didn't like Robert, he didn't like her, so barely Henry casually mentioned they broke up, Lanyon climbed the Eiffel Tower the first time, dreaming to keep this moment in his memory forever. It is very likely that the world hasn't still had people more dramatic than Robert Lanyon.

“W-wh- nonsense, I haven't blushed!” Henry mumbles angrily but blushes again.

“Of course, mon chéri,” is Robert's ease reaction. “So who was that?”

In Henry's glance suddenly flash bright, excited sparks; in a minute they fade, like the last embers on fire.

“It's nothing… We just run into each other on the street.” He shrugs. “Doesn't matter already. You heard, he has a lot to do and no time for...” Jekyll stammers and looks down at the floor.

“… for you?” of course there is no sympathy in monsieur's Lanyon voice. Undoubtedly. Absolutely. What a nonsense you say. And it's nothing that he sees live sparkles in his friend's eyes for the first in long-long months. It doesn't touch him at all.

On Henry's head lands first autumn leaf – Robert looks at it, looks, and then breaks off and whisks back to the café, followed by a surprised exclamation. He's already about to open his mouth, just that same Irishman flies out towards; accompanied by a resolute glance of Rachel Pidgley (being shifted to Lanyon, it becomes merry). Madame Cantilupe shakes her head.

Through the glass door, Robert can see how his friend is almost dropped on the asphalt, then the blond wheezes something like “we need to stop meeting like that” and quickly, without giving Henry any respite, starts to prattle, waving his hands. A sharp hearing of Robert separates only “you'll help me with this”, then follows “and I” obviously “try to help you with your painting”. If a second ago, Lanyon himself was ready to drag this Irishman by the scruff of his neck to Jekyll, now he's dreamed of the opposite – that he'd fall into the place he's gotten out from. Unfortunately, Henry's eyes flare up again, and now this little, fearless nightingale flies on another crumb of bread – and if not going into the poetic details, gets hooked.


	5. V

Henry Jekyll measures the ground at the entrance to some shop under the violet signboard. Place du Tertre is more alive than ever, the pale autumn sun makes its way through the rustling foliage of half-dressed trees, and the hubbub of artists and cartoonists doesn't shut for a second. Specks of dust are spinning in the air, children's laughter streams through the streets, light and carefree mood of the weekend takes over the city.

Edward is late. Henry can only see two explanations. 1 – he changed his mind and decided to enjoy this merry day in the company of someone much more pleasant. 2 – waking up at dawn, he witnessed an armed robbery of his own house. Being a brave and self-sacrificing human, he rushed across the bullet's way, aimed at his neighbor. The bullet ricocheted off the copper locket on his neck and killed two attackers, but before Edward could jump out of the window, saving him and concierge, he was deafened and taken hostage. Then, he was smuggled from France to Sicily, where the local mafia forced him to work for them. Refusing to obey the order and kill former caporegime, Edward fled to the local revolutionaries. During a popular uprising, he lost his memory from a hit on the head. Having forgotten himself, Henry, and his native land, he became the next Mafia Boss. Henry refuses to get upset for a guy who'll scare the whole Sicilian Strait, day and night devouring pasta with pesto sauce.

Coming to the conclusion that his second assumption is true, he turns to slip into a side street and get out of here, but is interrupted by a loud hail:

“Henry!”

Edward Hyde brakes in millimeters from him, huffing and puffing. His cheeks are flushed, and Jekyll finds it unusually sweet but bites his tongue.

“Sorry,” Edward waves vaguely. “Madame Cantilupe needed help with one thing. I broke from the spot as soon as I could.”

“It's nothing,” Henry shakes his head. “Just as I thought. All's fine.”  
  
Hyde, finally, unbends and opens his mouth to say something; but his wandering gaze stops right on Jekyll's eyes and he just helplessly grabs the air. For a while, they look at each other in silence. Then, under Henry's feet slaps a chicken, from the balcony above them are heard curses, and both guys undie. A feathered fugitive slips out of the hands of bended Henry with a loud 'kudah!' and hurries to bring chaos on Paris's streets. Edward scratches the back of his head and turns around.

“Ehe-he, so… What we were going to do?”

Jekyll beckons his new friend down the street.

“You wanted me to help you bring back your cousin and concierge… again?” he asks not quite confidently.

“Arrange them a meeting!” Hyde actively interrupts him, jumping over a hole in the pavement. “And I'll try to give you ideas for your painting.”

Henry sighs. He had no time to figure out whether he really believes in this enterprise or not. Something in sharp, disheveled Irishman's features has made him think that he'd finally find a way to revive his paintings. With his mind, Jekyll realizes this is possible hardly.

“... Don't think that anything will make them speak,” he mumbles, and somehow remains to be heard.

“Speak?” Edward blinks and Henry cuts himself off, intending to go into long and lengthy explanations - but is immediately interrupted: “Your paintings don't come to life at night?”

Now it's Henry who blinks. Lostly sorts all the possible answers on the tip of his tongue, but doesn't find anything suitable, and just stares at the Irishman. Hyde shrugs his shoulders.

“Well yeah, I too can hear paintings. If you call an imaginary whisper we put in them 'hear',” he grins and suddenly grabs Henry by the elbow, as if with the behest of some impulse. Henry weakly squeaks while he's being dragged to the other side of the street. Finally, Edward stops at the shop that's interested him, and Jekyll's hand slips easily from his grasp. He looks up at the shopwindow full of multicolored candles and paper animals hanging from the ceiling.

“And… and how do you plan to do this?”

In response, Hyde doesn't look at him, and Henry has a very strange feeling about this fact.

“Well, to be honest...” he crumples, but still answers “I haven't thought about it yet, but… We can decorate something like a table in our cafe. And lure them both, sending fake letters from each other.”

Jekyll rubs his chin and squints at the surrounding street. Being completely honest, he's agreed to this only because of the dream to move the painting of his life away from a dead end. About romance and stardust, Henry knows very little – in contrast to his French friend, who perennially pours compliments on lovely ladies and drags them flower bouquets of cyclopean sizes…

“Flowers!”

… although it's worth acknowledging, not that it's still helped Robert somehow.

“What?” this time, Edward turns to him, but Henry's gaze is already prudently foresighted.

“Well, ehm… flowers. You know, everyone usually likes flowers, so… You can decorate the table with them,” he mutters. “Do you know Archer's favorite flowers?”

“Isn't that supposed to be Virginia's favorite flowers?” Hyde asks vaguely.

For a split second their uncertain glances meet again, then Edward waves his hand.

“Although it doesn't matter. We'll buy flowers. Do you know where they're sold?”  
  
And with these words, a long weekend day begins to whirl with motley colors. Around the corner is placed favorite Jekyll's flower shop, but before allowing himself to be dragged into it, Hyde buys a dozen aromatic pink candles. Finally, a cheerful, freckled woman puts two bright bouquets in their hands, for some reason chuckling quietly to herself. Henry's next item is a mystical tiny coffee shop in which he obtains two sachets of macarons, one of which presents to his newly-made friend. While Edward is spinning round cookie in his hands, a winding street leads them to the Eiffel Tower; and from there, on Champ de Mars, the sky above which already slowly begins to dye in twilight colors. Henry can't manage to notice when this happened. But the world suddenly has begun to breathe cool, autumn freshness, and all his worries flew with gusts of Paris's wind. And he doesn't really want to think not about his painting, nor of anything else. Besides Edward Hyde.

“And what are your favorite flowers?” he asks, distracting the latter from indecision to try this ill-fated confectionery product.

Edward freezes for a second.

“Never thought of it. And yours?”

Jekyll's luck leads him to the fact that he stumbles and softly lands onto the grass, a bag of candles and cookies in his hands rustles in displeasure. He frowns, but Hyde laughs and, without thinking twice, falls to the ground for a company with him; and, perhaps, it isn't so bad.

“Never thought of it,” Jekyll harrumphs.

This Edward is very strange but very sweet, and he wants to know him better. Henry's never had a clue how to know people better, so they ran from him, pointing fingers after. Maybe that's why he avoids Place Pigalle, preferring to work in a silence at the statue of Marcel-Aymé; all relationships in his life end in a sterile silence; and paintings freeze in an eternal sleep.

When he opens his mouth to say something very stupid, the Irishman suddenly jumps up and looks around. A second later, with a who knows where gotten jar from a jam in his hands, he's already busily scurrying across the field. Jekyll has nothing left but to follow him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” but there's an evil glance thrown at him, and Henry freezes.

“Shut up, you'll frighten them!”

Henry swallows nervously – regardless of everything, Hyde's sudden rudeness almost hasn't scared him, and after a minute he already noiselessly sneaks after Edward, peeping from behind his shoulder. On the walls of a little jam jar pound glitter balls, and, much to his astonishment, Jekyll realizes that the whole field is strewn with fireflies. He can't even imagine what could've distracted him so much he hasn't noticed this amazing miracle of nature earlier.

When the jar is full, Hyde solemnly shoves his prey to the artist. And grins.

“So what's your painting about?”

By some unfamiliar sense, Henry understands that in a second he'll be redfaced again – despite the frost, despite the foretelling of the first autumn rain skies – that's why he hides behind that very jar, pretending to examine it with highly increased interest.

“Well, it's kind of a self-portrait. There's a railway station, and people, and...” he sighs. “Me.”

The first water drop falls on Hyde's nose. Again, he grabs Henry by the elbow, and while Jekyll involuntarily realizes he's already got used to this, drags him away, under a secure shelter of shops roofs. Silently, listening to wind's quiet melody, they return to Montmartre. All this seems to Henry some kind of perverse sign. Edward is a complete stranger, it would be naive and foolish to believe he has any interest in him. He – Henry Jekyll – _is_ naive, young, foolish and lost. Hardly anyone can change it.

The threshold of his house meets him with cold.

“Then, maybe...” Hyde nods at the jar in his hands “It'll help you find inspiration,” and shrugs. “I love fireflies.”

He looks at Henry as if he's still going to say something (or do), but at the end just grins and awkwardly mutters “well then, thanks for the help” and with lighting speed dives under the streams of rain. Jekyll jerks, but doesn't even have time to stretch his hand out. Doesn't even have time to stop, and doesn't know how.

The front door awaits him affably, he snaps it with a lock and slowly climbs the stairs. The living room is empty, Victor must have already gone to bed. Creature escorts him with a judgmental gaze, Zosi lies next to her, making no attempt to meet. Once in his room, Henry puts his shining jar on the table, looks at the next incomplete sketch for a minute – and then dips a small brush into the paint and carefully places yellowish-green dots in the station's sky.


	6. VI

Mr. Archer's favorite calendar is lost somewhere in the depths of his resembling a battlefield apartment, that's why he naively doesn't know what exactly today is. This day, however, doesn't differ with anything special. The two-day raging storm has finally come to an end, and again, Paris blesses a bright face of the sun. Archer skips to his own café, a smile of yesterday's memories illuminates his face. The desire to find his cousin with these memories only intensifies, and now Archer breaks into the building, loudly rattling the door. Madame Cantilupe phoned him in the morning and asked for a day off for 'serious' reasons, Rachel stated almost the same, and therefore the only one who's stayed on café's post was Edward Hyde. The expression on his face is a mixed fruity milkshake, and Archer snorts, leaning against the counter.

“Hóigh!”

The blond rises his tired eyes.

“Yeah.” Then, for a second, he flares. “How was yesterday?”

Archer chokes bursting, lining-up smile with all his strength, but it still picks up the tips of his lips.

“It was you, huh?” Hyde blinks and his cousin hurries to clarify the situation: “You did arrange our with Virgie meeting?” seeing how Edward is going to open his mouth, he waves his hand. “Oh come on, I know it's you. There's nobody else who could do that.”

Archer chews his lip for a while, then briefly sighs.

“Look, I really appreciate it. We used to love each other much, but then, y'know… Our relationship somehow burned out. It happens. She still pined for what we had, so am I, but… we move on.” He grins mournfully, but the clap of his hands is cheerful. “So you don't have to try to fix anything. And listen, you'd better take care of yourself. Rachel said you found someone...”

But Edward Hyde's gaze fades and he just shakes his head.

 

Robert Lanyon seems to be sitting here, leaning against this door jamb, already for an eternity. Because of the storm, he couldn't meet with his friend more than two days, and when finally got the opportunity to do this – faced Victor Frankenstein's look. Locked upstairs, Henry's been only aggressively driving a brush through the easel, either adding new details or dreaming of destroying this landscape at all. Nobody could get to him, and that's why Robert has stopped trying at all, settling down by his door.

When the sounds behind the wall fade, Lanyon with surprise notes that only a few hours have passed. The hapless artist suddenly claps his door loudly and flies out of the room. His hands are dirty red, and Robert convinces himself it's only paint. He rushes behind Henry, catching up and grabbing his shoulder.

“Hey, wait, you can't get away without explanation! What happened to you?”

Jekyll freezes, in his hiding eyes Robert can't find anything alive.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

“What do you mean, nothing?!” Lanyon cries, and then, having pondered, asks: “Is this something related to that Irishman?”

Now, something's changing in Jekyll's features. Hesitantly, he looks down at his hands and purrs barely audible under his nose. Robert isn't satisfied with this, so he asks the first thing that comes to his mind:  
  
“Did he hurt you?”

Henry pulls out his shoulder and sharply turns on his heels.

“It's not him, it's me. And I'm drawing.”

On this their small talk seems to be over, because Jekyll tightly presses his lips, heading to the sink; Robert watches him vaguely in the back. Whatever happened, from the state of constant depression his friend was ripped off with roots, but what's come to replace it?

In the living room, Zosi looks at him with a menacing glance, but Lanyon only walks on – to the fireplace, by which is located one velvet armchair with Frankenstein. Turns to the noise in the kitchen, sighs, and murmurs:  
  
“Are you sure that'll work?”

Victor just nods nonchalantly.

 

This wonderful day finds Rachel Pidgley and Jasper Kaylock laughing and strolling through the ringing streets. Trying different tastes of brought to the local pastry shop cakes, they look at each other with sparkling eyes and talk about everything in the world – silly and wise. The happiness of their young hearts can't be overshadowed by anything. Maybe except ended his shift Edward Hyde, a dreadful cloud wandering the same Montmartre streets. And as soon as Rachel notices him – rushes to the Irishman like an agile squirrel, leaving Jasper to yell at her in vain.

“Edward!” she stops two paces from him, confusedly throwing a glance at her colleague, not knowing how to begin the conversation. “Well, um… how are you?”

Hyde suspiciously squints at jaded Kaylock, running up from behind.

“Haven't you told Archer you can't work today?”

But it seems like Rachel isn't affected by this. She only makes a face of pain and shrugs her shoulders – for some reason, Mr. Hyde reminds her of big brother, so you can fool around him without unnecessary guilt trips.

“Today is such a good day, I just couldn't spend it in our cafe. Sorry.” Hyde's gaze already becomes evil-edifying, and she pulls her head in shoulders but doesn't cease to smile.

Behind her, Jasper is purely fascinated by Irishman, and Pidgley doesn't fail to lash his hand. The supplier cheeps, and deserves Hyde's attention and question:

“I thought you don't have anyone...” Edward rubs his chin awkwardly, realizing how stupid this sounded and how little he generally knows.

“As you see I have. Did you think Jasper and I are just two fools in love with each other?” Rachel snorts. “We have passed this stage a long time ago… Unlike you,” she murmurs, barely audible; but as soon as Hyde opens his mouth to reask, abruptly interrupts him: “Anyway, how'd it go with Archer and Virginia?”

Surely, for her it wasn't worth the slightest effort to figure out who her new friend was so zealously concerned of. Obviously not of madame Cantilupe, who's still been stubbornly adhered to her promise to switch to nicotine gums. Adhered – but that's all.

Edward shrugs uncertainly.

“They don't need it. It was all for nothing.”

For a while Rachel's silent, gathering her thoughts. She honestly doesn't know why she wants to help this Irishman. Perhaps he seems to her as completely lonely, lost man, despite all his liveliness. Perhaps he reminds her of Mr. Archer, and she remembers Mr. Archer still weak on his feet, a frightened stranger in a completely unfamiliar country. Perhaps all of this together. However, nothing can explain the fact that a week after he's arrived, Rachel Pidgley considers Edward Hyde her closest friend, and therefore says:  
  
“Maybe they don't need it, but I believe it wasn't just for nothing. You've met Henry and gotten to know him better."

Hyde looks away.

“Aha, I'm useless to him, and hardly need it himself, so I still don't see any se- AUCH!”

Unable to endure more of this delirium, Rachel Pidgley pinches his shoulder and shoves, puffing angrily.

“You can't even imagine how you both need each other! You don't even see how he looks at you, and you don't even notice how you look at him!”

For some more time, she crossly drills a friend with a look, then snorts:  
  
“Good Lord, Edward Hyde, stop thinking about others all the time! You try to put together puzzles of their life, forgetting about your own! Who knows, maybe you came here – and this all happened – not by chance, but you don't even give it this chance! Even if you'll meet Henry at least once again, it doesn't mean you'll be obligated to marry him!”  
  
A loud and frightened Jasper's swallowing distracts the girl from her tirade. She glances at him, but he only smiles and raises his hands in a surrendering gesture; Rachel turns back to Hyde. For all this time he's been a frozen statue, but having digested all he heard, rushes into a plaintive whine:  
  
“Fine, but I don't even know where to look for him! And I can't just show up in his house!”

You can! - Rachel wants to exclaim but stops herself in time. Returns thoughts to yesterday and mentally nods.

“Then meet him on the top of Montmartre, at the Basilica. I think he'll be there today.”

When Hyde tries to ask a question spinning on his tongue, she just shoves him again. “I know and all! Go already!”

Surprisingly, Edward takes off from a place.

 

Victor Frankenstein cannot call himself a person who believes in love at first sight. Probably, he still remembers how he and Elizabeth bickered because of any trinket both before the wedding and after. You can't love any person right away, without knowing how loudly they laugh; who they are in anger; nor of what they fear and dream about. And sometimes even these things aren't enough.

Nevertheless, that's what he believes in – his young friend Henry's spending time at the fireplace in the living room, unwashed spots of paint flaunt on his hands, and in his eyes reigns a dead wasteland. And not that it frightens, but at least makes Zosi and Creature nervous, for a black cat and a Scottish Terrier keep an eye on the artist: the first – sitting on a coffee table, the second – under it. Passing by, Victor strokes them and the animals grumble in his back with displeasure.

“Henry, why are you still sitting here?”

Jekyll doesn't turn around, nor care. Frankenstein sadly recalls the once-forsaken habit of lighting a pipe and sits in an armchair behind him.

“Tell me about this Irish friend of yours.”

At least he gets to the point because Henry shudders and squints at his older friend.

“There's nothing to-” he begins, but no one lets him finish:

“There's always something to tell.” For some time, Victor keeps silent. “Even if now you're afraid to see him again – and don't even try to argue, I know that – but I see he's causing something in you, and I'm a scholar, so forgive me for my scholarly interest.”

At first, Henry's lips tremble in indecision. He turns away, running his hand into a handful of his own chestnut hair, and his quiet voice reaps the silence:

“I don't know. I'll just mess up everything as always.” Victor frowns (this isn't quite what he's wanted to hear), but Jekyll continues faster than he gets time to object anything: “He's strange. And cute. He has beautiful eyes. And voice. But he looks in his place. And he hardly needs such a mess as me. I can't even finish one damn painting.”

Zosi jumps up from her seat, running up to the master and poking a cool nose into his hand. Henry doesn't make any attempt to stroke his pet, and soon the dog lies at his feet, warming with her fur. Victor thinks. For long. In this life, he's been fortunate enough to witness both sorrow and happiness; maybe that's why he wishes this happiness to his friend. Maybe that's why he agreed to help him, looking for a loophole in own beliefs. Love at first sight, of course, isn't possible. But sometimes destiny itself points us to people who turn our lives upside down.

“Listen, Henry,” he begins slowly. “No relationship will heal your illness. And if you acquire a companion of your life, you won't cease to be who you are, and won't cease to feel pain. But do know that even in the most difficult moments there will be a roof over your head, and you can always find a drop of peace in someone's arms. And maybe I'm saying it's all for nothing because I do not know what and to whom you feel,” a smile illuminates his lips, “but I know that if you won't try anything – you won't know anything.”

When Henry turns around, something glitters in his eyes. Absently, he slips his hand through Zosi's coat. He's still very, very young – Frankenstein thinks. He still doesn't know how dangerous it is to lose chances.

“So I'm asking you, Henry… why are you still sitting here?”

Jekyll blinks and looks at the door.

 

Meet him on the top of Montmartre, at the Basilica – this little thought-bird pulses in Henry's head while he jumps over the stairs, climbing higher and higher. Victor gave him a fairly clear direction, but neither explained how he knows that Hyde will be there, nor _why_ exactly there. Sacré-Cœur's domes majestically gleam in the sun, gray-winged pigeons fill the streets. All of this is so dissimilar to Henry's lifeless paintings – a storming life is dancing around him, and if you keep your ears open to the memories of this old city, you can hear the moaning of stones and the laughter of walls, inhale warm milk and tap the ringing of bells in the wind with the tips of your nails. Jekyll's bones are far from glassy, and a collision with outside world can only ruin his appetite – this doesn't justify all his countless attempts to get out of the nonexistent closed circle into which he has locked himself. Maybe all that people need to notice life around them is a barely perceptible push, one-single flash, a meaningless event.

Anyway, when Henry Jekyll – a simple English artist and a burning star simultaneously – flies up the hill, Edward Hyde – an ordinary Irish waiter, and, at the same time, a burning star as well – is already waiting for him there. He clings to his own knees, puffing as if he's late for a train. All the world's trains somehow slip out of Henry's head when Edward looks at him and freezes. He doesn't know what to say. What to say to him isn't known either.

Somehow they reach each other.

Edward smiles.

“You know… We somewhat stupidly parted last time. I didn't want to run away like that.” He averts his gaze, and the setting sun gilds his eyelashes. “Sorry for that. You're very… you're very beautiful and unusual, and I would like to know you… better.”

Henry flashes up like a match.

“Me too… I-I, I'm sorry, I honestly don't know what to say, you're telling me such things and I-I, I'm just-”

At some point of his embarrassed mumbling, Edward simply takes his face in the palms of his hands, his smile becomes wider; and of course Henry sees that he's horribly embarrassed himself, maybe it's because people are staring at them. All this is not important since the Universe somehow stops.

“What are you doing?” it's not even with lips, but with eyes, yet of course Edward hears him, as always.

Moves a little forward, balancing on one leg-

“Trying new things.”

-and kisses him.

 

Madame Cantilupe harrumphs, contemplating Sacré-Cœur Basilica from the balcony. Next to her, Mr. Maijabi lights a pipe, letting out smoke rings in the autumn sky – one bigger than another.

“How'd you think, it worked?”

Maijabi scratches the back of his head and shakes it.

“Well, dear Emilia! - this we cannot know. If so was destined – means it worked. Honestly, when you came and told me to help this Edward Hyde...”

“I thought I've caught a lucky ticket when I saw this cutie Henry Jekyll,” madame assents to herself. “Immediately, I understood – that's who are made for each other! Although to persuade Victor to help us wasn't easy.”

Maijabi waves off the ring tangled in his beard.

“For him, the happiness of this youngster is more important than anything. But I'm surprised you didn't attract Archer. It's his cousin.”

“For why do I need this pompous fool?” Emilia rolls her eyes. “Besides, Rachel's always been good at everything.”

The Paris's sky today is wonderful – notes Maijabi. Aloud says:

“Love is indeed a very mystical power, my dear.”

Emilia Cantilupe nods.


	7. ~

October 6th, 1997. It is exactly 10am. In Sicily, on one of the dusty, poor streets, children are playing with a ball. At the same moment, a brown-eyed man named Robert Lanyon gives a blue-eyed woman named Virginia Ito a bouquet of forget-me-nots, first time meeting her at the foot of Paris's bakery. Meanwhile, in the park, Scottish Terrier Zosi once again brings a rubber toy under the feet of Victor Frankenstein, causing his weary sigh.

Henry Jekyll looks out of the window on sloping roofs of the city that managed to become his home in less than a day. In the bed behind him is still peacefully sleeping Edward Hyde, unaware of being the cause of someone's happiness. A simple pencil in Henry's hand sketches the station – lively, full of people not hurrying in their cares, but meeting after long separation relatives. A newspapers shop of this station is painted with colors of the sky, fireflies are waltzing around it, and the trains are decorated with flowers. In the station's center stands the artist himself, he holds a hand of a man who gifted him a kiss under Sacré-Cœur, and here, in this painting – he is happy.

But in reality haven't yet been invented those words that could've mirrored at least a fraction of what Henry feels – and happiness is only a scurf of yesterday of the love that shines from his heart.


End file.
